


Reality Ensues

by Rubyshade



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Drabble, Gen, halfway through playing bioshock infinite I contracted food poisoning and then wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11118288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubyshade/pseuds/Rubyshade
Summary: The effects of eating trash catch up with Booker.





	Reality Ensues

It was only reasonable—in some ways they both should have seen it coming. Booker, playing the kleptomaniac hero or the hungry raccoon or whatever he fancied himself, was perpetually digging through bins and trash cans looking for vittles. Elizabeth asked why he didn’t just buy anything from the vending machines—Booker had only mumbled something about a poor childhood and looked vaguely embarrassed. To be fair, Columbians did seem to throw perfectly decent things away...silver eagles gleamed up from the bottom of trash bins and apples with only one little black spot were left on benches. Sometimes they seemed like they’d maybe been tossed for a reason, but Elizabeth had always assumed that Booker knew what he was doing.

It’s only after they’ve (well, Booker has) fought their way back across the boardwalk, near the Soldier’s Field, that the consequences strike. Booker, in a frankly incredible display of skyline marksmanship, dispatches a last policeman with a single shot. Elizabeth, zipping along a few yards behind, looks away as he topples over the rail limply. Death still turns her stomach, at least.

Booker disengages his hook, drops to the ground, and stumbles a few steps, Elizabeth close behind him. He grunts as he hits the ground and sucks in through his teeth. Elizabeth frowns, heart picking up a bit as he gingerly walks the few steps to a nearby ticket booth.

“Mr. DeWitt…?” She ventures, and Booker sinks slowly to the ground, face screwed up. But he’s not in pain--she can tell that much. He replies in a light, unsteady voice.

“I… yeah, I…” he ventures, then groans quietly. He closes his eyes and breathes in, shallow and shaky. Elizabeth bends over, concerned. Booker’s face is pale, and they make eye contact.

“Are you o—“ Elizabeth steps back as Booker hunches over, pistol and skyhook forgotten at his side. He coughs, once, and Elizabeth realizes not a moment too soon what’s happening and stands back, way back, as the False Shepard vomits, the remains of too many scavenged fruits and candies to count splattering inelegantly onto the pale birch boards. Elizabeth grimaces and twists anxiously at her thimble—in all her years in the tower, she’s never had to deal with a situation like this. Booker heaves again, and she settles for standing a few paces away, back to him so that he can still maintain a vestige of dignity. There is another cough and a pause, and she turns around.  
Booker is leaning back against the ticket booth, face skyward, panting. She sees him shiver, and he turns his head and looks at her. A multitude of things fly in that one glance—shame, embarrassment, concern-- and he holds up a hand.

“I’ll be fine in a momen’,” he rasps, and leans over and spits, a long strand of drool that refuses to let go. He spits again, a dim shape in the gathering blue of the Columbian dusk, lit from above in warm polygons from the empty ticket booth. Elizabeth turns away and rocks up and down on the balls of her feet, blowing out between her lips. “Take your time.” She says. At least the boardwalk is deserted—of the living, anyway.  
They could be here a while.

They aren’t—or they are. It depends on the definition of a while. Booker staggers to his feet, wiping his mouth on his cuff. Elizabeth makes a face. Booker doesn’t notice. She sighs.

“Don’t make me say I told you so.” Her voice carries a hint of playfulness, and she could swear in the twilight that Booker tilts his head upwards, like a huffy toddler. “Yeah, alright,” he affirms quietly. He strides forward, taking great care not to step in the puddle of sick. “C’mon.”

Elizabeth follows him away, Booker walking a bit slowly. Before they turn a corner, she looks back and feels, pulling a hole in reality and closing it around the puddle, leaving not a sign that anyone ever made a mistake there.

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old piece. I had food poisoning the same night I played this segment of the game, and the writing helped me feel better.


End file.
